Great Expectations
by XWaltzforVenusX
Summary: He always knew he’d get divorced. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’d always known. It was inevitable. As hard as he tried to be a Cohen, he just wasn’t. He was an Atwood.
1. We Exchanged a Vow

_Oh my… um… I don't really know how to explain this, so just read._

_Written to 'Great Expectations' by Elbow, off the album 'Leaders of the Free World'. _

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He always knew he'd get divorced.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he'd always known. It was inevitable. As hard as he tried to be a Cohen, he just wasn't. He wasn't Sandy and Kirsten, going on thirty years next June. He wasn't Seth and Summer, celebrating four solid years with no end in sight.

He was an Atwood.

Atwoods got divorced. It was a fact; a certainty, like knowing the sun would rise the next day. It's why Frank had never re-proposed to Julie, even though they were in love and lived together and had a child together. Even Frank admitted the first proposal had been stupid – a major miscalculation brought about by the thrill of being in love for the first time in nearly fifteen years. But he'd never proposed again, and he and Julie were quite happy together. So really, he should've followed Frank's lead – did he actually just say that?

He never should have gotten married in the first place. But he'd been in love – which was really just code for _stupid_ and _impulsive_. He had thought he was immune to the Atwood divorce record because he'd been taken in by the Cohens. Seriously, he thought the Cohen's extreme luck in marriage would offset the Atwood's curse. Apparently blood was thicker than water, though, because here he was, sitting at the kitchen counter in the Cohen's house with his pen held just scant inches above the papers. All he had to do was sign them, and it would be over.

The little _x_ where his signature would go looked lonely, sitting there all by itself with a great expanse of black line reaching out far across the paper. It should be easy – signing these – because they'd discussed it. At length. And she was right; this was the best course of action. They weren't meant to be together.

Maybe in another lifetime, he mused, an alternate universe – like Seth had ranted about that one Chrismukkah after his coma. Maybe they could have been happy in an alternate universe – one where he didn't have a doomed outlook on marriage and she wasn't so intently focused on making it work that she lost sight of the point of it.

They were two different people; they'd known that from the start, but like idiots, they thought they would be different. She was fond of telling people that _opposites attract_ and he liked playing the unconcerned rebel. But there was only so much pretending a person could do before the problems got too big to hide.

Like the fact that she wanted children and he didn't. Or that she wanted to live in France and he wanted to stay here. They shouldn't have gotten married. They should've _talked_ about this kind of stuff before they even considered it. He was actually surprised she hadn't brought any of it up – usually she was so practical and detail oriented. The children issue was kind of a big detail; the living situation not far behind.

And even though they'd managed to settle those big problems tentatively – they wouldn't have children _for now_ and they would live here because their family and friends were here – he knew there was some resentment on her part, because she was the one making the sacrifices. And there were little differences between them that just piled up into one big tangled mess of issues.

She liked change; he didn't. She loved philosophy; he loved math. She liked the temperature of their house to be warm; he liked it cold. He wanted coffee and cereal for breakfast; she insisted on a well-balanced meal. She loved wine; he refused to drink. She wanted to travel; he wanted to stay here. She loved going to parties; he hated crowds. She talked; he didn't.

Their differences had drawn them together. Her little quirks, the way she seemed to compliment him, had made him fall for her. But after the newness of it had worn off, the little things got annoying – he wanted the temperature _cold_, damnit. It didn't help that they were both too stubborn to back down.

Sometimes he wondered how Sandy and Kirsten did it. He'd seen those two fight countless times about pointless things – what color to paint the kitchen, how to fairly punish Sophie for getting paint on the couch, whether they should invite the Nana down for Chrismukkah or not. It never seemed to bother them that they were nothing alike. _Yin and Yang, baby_.

And Seth and Summer fought constantly. It's just what they did. They fought, they argued, they hit – well, Summer hit, Seth cringed – they fought some more, they made up. It was natural and familiar, as regular as breathing for them, a constant cycle that never failed to end with making up.

Not the case with him. Their fights weren't loud, they weren't laced with sarcasm and lightheartedness. Their fights were whispered and slow burning, hidden from the outside world, kept behind locked doors, tearful and painful, with accusations and blame, which never came to a conclusion or an agreement. It was always a deadlock, a standstill, a silent understanding to let it drop until the next time, where it would be picked up and used as fodder for their anger.

Thinking back, maybe they should have fought harder – louder, with more arm flailing and thrown pottery. Maybe if they'd really let themselves go at it, they would've seen how pointless the arguments were. But he'd been determined _not_ to be his parents. He'd been determined not to yell, because he didn't want to end up like them.

Yeah, that worked out brilliantly.

He had to just face it; they were both too damaged to function together. He was too closed off, she was too needy. They were both too jaded by their pasts – by uncaring parents and emotionally crushing relationships – to really trust each other.

A soft knock on the back door made him move his pen – not towards the paper he was supposed to sign, but off to the side. She was standing outside the sliding door, and he got off the stool to let her in. The air outside was cold, and he had to remind himself that it was the middle of winter, and nearing two in the morning.

"How'd you know I'd be awake?" he asked as he shut the door again and she sat down at the counter, staring sadly at their divorce papers. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, and he didn't need any other answer. Because – despite all their problems – she _knew_ him. Probably better than Seth or the Cohens ever had. She knew everything about him, just like he knew everything about her.

He knew every quirk in her personality. Like how she listened to classical music when she wrote poetry, but listened to The Who when she was translating someone else's. Or the way she pinched the bridge of her nose when she was annoyed – closing her eyes and taking a calming breath. He knew every inch of her body by heart, every curve, every mark. Like the freckle she had on her big toe – the reason she hated wearing sandals because she complained it was ugly. Or the one wisp of hair that curled – right behind her left ear, and it frustrated her to no end because the rest of her hair was straight. He knew everything about her.

"I'm moving to France." She met his gaze squarely, but her hands smoothed out the front of her shirt. She was nervous. "I wanted to tell you instead of just up and leaving."

"Thanks." His gaze shifted to their divorce papers, to the blank line where his name should go, and the occupied one above it where her curved script already was. It made him nauseous that she would be changing her name back. She'd been so excited about changing it in the first place, making him go along with her so she could tell everyone they passed that she was now an Atwood, because they were married. She'd been so happy; he should've known. "When are you going?"

"As soon as possible." He knew she meant as soon as he signed, because she'd been waiting for it for a week. He kept making excuses to her – he was busy, he was tired. He remembered saying something over the phone to her about all of his pens being out of ink. She was waiting for him, and then she was leaving the country.

"Can I ask why?" He knew about her love of France, that she wanted to live there permanently. But he felt like she owed him at least some sort of explanation – if only to let him know _why_ France was so important. And if it had always been more important than him.

"Because I can't stay here." It was like a peace offering - she shrugged like it was a favor. "It would just be too weird." He knew what she meant. They shared the same friends, the same town, the same everything. She'd given up her life to come live his, and when they separated, she would have nothing of her own. Summer was her best friend, but she was _his_ friend and _his_ brother's wife. She didn't even have work to turn to – her only income was her deal with a French publisher to translate their books into English. It made her good money, but it wasn't _work_ like his was. She didn't go into an office; she didn't talk to other people there. So she was leaving, to make her own life in France. And he knew that she would find someone else. Because who wouldn't want her? He couldn't even begin think of himself with someone else, and it made him sick to think of her with anyone else.

He wondered how he'd gotten himself into this. How had he made it down the aisle? How had he made it through his vows – promising to love and cherish and all that other nonsense? How had he promised to stay with her forever? _Forever_ was a word no Atwood could ever use – it never worked out. But he knew one part of his vow would keep. He'd always love her; he knew it like he knew his name.

It would be easier if he didn't – it would be easier if he could hate her. It would be easier if he didn't care that soon, she wouldn't be Mrs. Atwood – that soon, she would be on a plane to another country and out of his life forever. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to live without her. And that wasn't a desperate cry, a '_dear God, how am I supposed to live without her_'? But he'd lived with her for nearly ten years – not all of that time married, some of that time apart, part of that time together but in different countries. He'd lived with her in his life for ten years, and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to function properly without her.

He'd have to start doing his own laundry, cooking his own dinners. He'd have to start remembering people's birthdays and that Sophie liked _red_ food, but not _green_, and that their neighbor was allergic to sunflowers, so he couldn't plant any. Not that he had any urge to plant them, but it was still one more thing he _should_ know, but didn't, because _she_ did.

"Have you told Summer?" He knew all about his sister-in-law's feelings. She said she was supportive – _if_ it's really what they wanted. And she always added that '_if'_ like she was sure it wasn't what they wanted. He knew she really disapproved.

"Yeah. She didn't believe me." That was Summer. Just as stubborn as they were. As stubborn as they were, but without the knowledge they had. She didn't know what went on behind closed doors; she didn't know how they fought, because they didn't do it in front of her, and neither was willing to tell anyone about it later. They never told anyone how he would lay down and stare at the ceiling for hours while she went into the bathroom and turned on the water so he wouldn't have to hear her cry.

"Yeah." He wished this was an angry break up, so he wouldn't have to do this – sit here with her like everything was normal when it obviously wasn't. He knew she felt it too, from the way she was picking at her nails. She only did that when she was nervous and upset.

"I just came by for the papers." It was a whisper, like she felt guilty for asking this of him, even though they'd both agreed to it already. He nodded, because he didn't have any excuse not to. He had time, he obviously wasn't tired, and his pen was chock full of ink. And she was waiting for him so that she could finally move on with her life.

"Sure." He picked up his pen and signed his name, flipping through the papers and doing it again, then initialing, then signing, until every blank, x-marked line was filled. Then he put down his pen and handed the papers to her.

"Thanks." She hugged them to her, protectively, like she needed some form of comfort. She took a deep, shaky breath, blinking tears out of her eyes. "Thank you for loving me. It was nice being Mrs. Atwood for a while."

He bent down and kissed her. It was so natural – he'd done it a million times before. They'd shared every kiss imaginable – slow, desperate, hard, quick, angry, tearful, joyful, chaste, mellow, frantic, dirty, loving. They'd had their first kiss, and now they had their last. He pulled away and she smiled at him – understanding – before walking out the back door. Out of his life.

Well, not completely, not yet. He was sure he'd see her in the days to come, when she was packing up her life and he was helping her, and Summer was folding her arms and waiting for them to tell her this was all a joke, and Seth was making inappropriate comments because he didn't understand, and Sophie was asking why everyone was acting so weird because she was too young to believe anything except that true love conquered all. He wasn't looking forward to her finding out that sometimes, love just wasn't enough. But she was a Cohen, so he knew she would find it and it would work for her.

She wasn't an Atwood.

He sat back down at the counter as silence took over the kitchen again. It was almost three, and he had work tomorrow, and he contemplated calling out but he knew he'd want the distraction when the sun rose and he didn't have the darkness to numb him. He knew he'd want to get away from the house when everyone woke up and started pestering him, calling him every few hours to make sure that he was ok.

He wasn't ok. They knew that, but they didn't know that their constant questioning made it worse. How could their sympathetic looks fix the fact that he would never hear her laugh again, or wake up to find her staring at him – or better yet, to find her still asleep so that _he_ could stare at _her?_ Or that he'd never feel her body moving under him, kissing him, telling him how much she loved him. They couldn't fix the fact that he'd have to go back to _his_ house, which used to be _their_ house, and that he'd have to live there when every room, every surface, was imprinted with her. Maybe he'd just sell it and get an apartment.

Yeah. He'd sell it, and he'd give half the money to her to start over in France, and he'd use the other half to pay for his rent. And he'd go to work, and have dinner with the Cohens once a week, and play video games with Seth, and he'd live his life like he used to. He'd have to relearn to do all of it without her, but he wouldn't move on.

And he'd watch Sandy and Kirsten and Sophie get older, and Seth and Summer have children of their own, and people at his work get promoted and leave. He'd watch as everyone moved forward while he stayed here, in the post-her world, and he would spend his life watching everyone else live theirs.

He put the pen back in its drawer and went upstairs to the guest room the Cohens had given him indefinitely while his divorce went through.

He needed to get some sleep for work tomorrow.

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	2. I Love You, I Always Will

_Ok, this really, really, REALLY was never meant to be more than a one-shot. It was supposed to be brutal, and awful, and painful._

_Apparently I succeeded, because I had a lot of people telling me they couldn't believe I broke Ryan and Taylor up._

_So for all those people who can't live with the depressing ending, I give you this: the fix._

_And for those of you who can live with it? You don't have to read, or you can, or you can read and pretend it's a totally separate fic. That's what I'm doing._

_Either way, I hope you enjoy it._

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Thirty-six days, eleven hours and forty-two minutes.

That was how long it took him to realize he'd made a mistake, signing those papers. He'd been at work, talking to a client about the number of bathrooms they wanted in their office building when it hit him: he should have fought for her. He should have told her it was a stupid idea – that they were just being stubborn.

Everyone else had seen it; everyone else knew it was wrong. Summer had protested through the whole horrible process, Seth had questioned his judgment. Sandy and Kirsten had looked at him with pity. At the time he'd thought they felt bad for him for having to go through this. Now he knew they felt bad for him because he'd been making a mistake, but couldn't see it.

Thirty-six days, eleven hours and forty-two minutes.

He remembered the exact time he'd put his pen to the paper, because he had wanted to remember to the minute when he stopped moving forward. Two thirty-seven in the morning. It had been a Tuesday. He just wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now, because she was in France, and the paperwork had gone through. It was over. He'd let her slip away from him.

He remembered a time when he'd fought for her; when he'd gotten up in front of thirty women and one smug French bastard and read a poem he'd written for her. How had he gotten from that – from knowing so surely that he needed her – to letting the temperature of the air or her preference for a well-balanced meal come between them?

Right now, though, he was getting impatient. But he figured that if he'd waited this long, he could wait another five minutes. It wasn't her fault he'd come a half an hour early.

But he was nervous. His heart was in his throat, his stomach tight, ready to rebel against him. His palms were sweaty – he kept rubbing them on his jeans as he looked around for the familiar sight of _her_. And it wasn't like he could eat to pass the time – his stomach couldn't handle it, and even if it could, he couldn't read the menu. Because it was in French.

He remembered the smug look on Summer's face when he asked her to call his ex-wife, to tell her that he had something for her and that he'd hand deliver it. He remembered the way Summer had smiled through the entire phone call, agreeing on a time and place for them to meet, so he could give her the things she'd left behind.

Except she hadn't left anything behind. At the time, the plan had seemed brilliant: just get her to meet him. Somewhere. _Anywhere_. He'd fly to France if he had to. All of which he did, but he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now, because he had nothing to give her. She hadn't left anything behind, and she'd come into the restaurant to find him empty-handed with nothing to say.

The café door swung open, and he turned to her, standing with the sun blazing behind her, blocking out her features, reminding him so forcibly of Marissa that for a moment he felt like he was sixteen again, in the car with Sandy and pulling away from the strange new family that had taken him in and the ethereal girl next door. But she wasn't Marissa. She wasn't in the ground. She had been his wife, and he'd let her go, but he wasn't sure who she was now.

She moved forward so he could see her. She'd changed. Her hair was darker – he guessed because she didn't have the California sun to bleach it out like it used to. It was longer than it had been when he last saw her, settling in waves over her shoulders. She looked beautiful and it broke his heart. His gaze traveled over her, stopping at her stomach; at the way it curved out ever so slightly. And when he met her gaze again, he _knew_; and she knew he knew, and she didn't say anything as she sat down.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" It didn't seem to matter that he was supposed to have something for her; neither of them were fooled. He wondered if she'd known from the beginning that he'd been lying; that he'd just wanted to see her. Because she didn't ask him why he was here – she just leant forward to rest her arms on the table and she shrugged.

"No." At least she was honest. He used to love that about her. He remembered when he loved her because she wouldn't lie to him – everyone else lied to him. Even the Cohens lied to him, to 'protect' him from the truth. He used to love her for never lying to him. But right now he wished she would; he wished she would lie and pretend she would have told him eventually. And she knew he wanted it. "I was scared." He knew she must have been. She was alone, in a new country, divorced, finding out she was pregnant. She had no friends to turn to, because her only friends knew _him_. And as much as he wished he could, he couldn't be angry. "So what now?" He didn't want children – it had been part of their problem. He couldn't _handle_ children. It was why she wasn't ever going to tell him.

And just then it hit him hard, like a punch to the gut – images of her pregnant, of going to the doctor together, of laying in their bed, hands laced as he talked into her stomach so his child could know his voice, of making her breakfast, of standing in the hospital room with her, of encouraging her, of going outside to tell everyone he was a father.

"Come home." He still had the house. Because – despite all of his plans – he couldn't let go of the one place that reminded him of her, that still smelled like her. He looked up at her, and he knew exactly what she was thinking; it hadn't worked out the last time, and a child was no reason to stay together if they wouldn't be happy. It wouldn't be fair to the child, and it wouldn't be fair to them. And even though he wanted more than anything for her to come home again – to be with him again – he couldn't help but remember that he was an Atwood. He wasn't sure they could make it work.

So they sat in silence, in the French café, as people moved around them while they stood stagnant. He'd said all he could – it was her turn, and he knew he'd wait years if he had to until she spoke. "It's a boy." She took a deep breath, like it was suddenly real, and she put her hand on the table, and he reached across and laced his fingers through hers. It was so familiar, so comfortable that it was an unconscious movement.

"Come home." It didn't matter their differences. He was going to have a son, and it didn't matter anymore that she liked throwing parties that he hated to attend. It didn't matter, because he could picture their life; teaching his son to play soccer, taking him to the Cohen's, playing with Seth and Summer's children, snatching moments between caring for him to remember how he was created in the first place, having a second child – another boy, because that's what Atwoods had.

"Do you promise to fight with me?" Her voice was a scared whisper, but he saw the hint of a smile on her face, and he knew this was right, because she thought like him. She _knew_ that if they fought harder, they could make it. She _knew_ that if they were determined to make it work, they could.

It's what he had come to realize while she'd been gone. It's what made Sandy and Kirsten work, it's what made Seth and Summer work. They worked, because… because they _worked_. Every day for them was a constant battle, a fight to stay together and not let the little things get in the way. He hadn't seen it until his own marriage had crumbled – the way Kirsten would close her eyes for a few seconds and take a deep breath, before opening them and looking adoringly at her husband. Or the way Sandy would go out surfing every morning and come back with a smile on his face. Or the way Seth let his sarcasm shield him, or the way Summer lashed out her fury.

They worked damn hard at their relationships while he'd watched his fall apart, because he hadn't wanted to fight. He'd been so determined not to _fight_, because fighting was bad. It made his parents split, it got him into trouble. He hadn't seen the difference between _fighting_ and _fighting for your marriage._ He saw it now, and he knew she did too. She saw the difference between _trying to make their marriage work_ and _letting their marriage work_. She'd always been so wrapped up in trying to be perfect for him; trying to be the perfect wife, because she didn't want this marriage to fall apart like her first one had. She'd tried too hard, pushed too hard. And looking at her now, she knew it.

"I promise." He would fight with her. They would yell, they would scream, they would throw things, they would rant to Seth and Summer, they would let the Cohens give them advice, they would ignore the advice, they would yell some more, they would get over it. He was determined to make it work, even if they didn't get remarried – because that was just dooming them to the Atwood curse again. But who said they _had_ to be married? Why couldn't they live together and have children together, and just not have the rings? Julie and Frank were making that work.

She squeezed his hand lightly, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface of the table. It felt like he was moving through molasses as he leant forward, bringing his mouth to hers, heart pounding in his throat, hand tightening around hers.

Forty-two days, seventeen hours and twelve minutes since he'd last kissed her.

It was a tentative kiss – unsure and fearful of the future, and he was reminded, suddenly, of the train ride where they'd said goodbye for four years: leaning across the table, their future spread out before them, the wildly uncertain dreams and hopes.

Forty-two days, seventeen hours and twelve minutes.

Thinking about it, it wasn't a long time. This could have gone on for years; it could have gone on forever. He could have spent his life being stupid and stubborn. Being unhappy.

He could have, but he hadn't.

He wasn't sure if they could make it work, but he was certain he would _try_ this time.

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_And you can thank Ave for bugging the crap out of me until I posted this (and somewhat beta-ing it for me). You owe me the next chapter of SMC, chica._


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